One Minute
by SilentSpeaker13
Summary: Stan wants to confess to Kyle.  One sided Style, just a short little ditty.  Enjoy!


**AN: First of all, I don't own SP, we all know that. Second, I took a break from writing for a while due to some personal crap, blah, blah, blah, the usual bit. If anyone here is reading my one on-going story "But Sons Do It Better" the next chap is on it's way. I actually wanted to write some little ditty to hopefully get out some crapiness before that chap is published so it will, hopefully, be better. Enjoy!**

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><p>"Kyle! Wait up!"<p>

Shadowed by the backlight of the bright sun the boy turns and stands still, one orange eyebrow reaching toward the descending mass of curls. Quickly he reaches him, stopping a few feet away and doubling over as he tries to catch his breath. He pants and heaves, his mouth is dry and his face red from his exertion; even with his asthma he shouldn't be this winded. As he cycles through overly dramatic inhales and exhales of breath he watches the shadow reaching toward him; the body sways and shifts, the blurry outline of a backpack changes as the shadow adjusts the burden on his shoulder. For some reason it's become a lot more comfortable staring at the shadow of his best friend than the guy himself.

"You okay Stan?"

No, he's not okay. He's anything but okay, but that's not something he can articulate right now. Telling the truth right now will lead to honest conversations and soul bearing because once he starts to speak genuinely he won't be able to stop and he needs to be able to stop. This needs to be on his terms, not in a sweeping storm of verbal diarrhea.

"Yeah, just asthma; allergies."

He straightens and looks up and prepares to speak…and stops. As soon as his eyes meet that unflattering expression of quizzical curiosity and no uncertain amount of annoyed impatience his words turn into a swarm of flying insects that proceed to fly down his throat and into his gut. And there are all those unpleasant feelings again: the flush of his skin, the sweat forming, the pressured pulse, and the intense nausea. Once again he looks away.

Sixteen years of looking at this face still did not prepare him for the seventeenth year. It looks about the same as always, the same colors, features, expressions as always, albeit a little older now in appearance. It's the same as always, no more or less special than it ever was before. So why does it do this to him now? Why does it make him feel so wonderful and awful at the same time? Why does it put him in such a bad situation? The answer is both known to him and terrifying to acknowledge.

"What is it Stan?"

The irritated question makes him twitch. He has to say something. He's standing there slouched and silent like an idiot; he can't even look his best friend in the eye. He has to do something, Kyle's unflinching impatience is making him even more uncomfortable, his panic is beginning to rise.

The planned confessions are screeching to a halt. He really is going to have an asthma attack if he keeps this up. He can't do this. He can't risk this. He just can't. This moment is all too abruptly completely terrifying and earth-shaking. And for all his inner turmoil and discontent Kyle still waits, his look ever shifting between confused, concerned, and increasingly annoyed.

He has to stop his. He has to reclaim normality. Just make erase the dramatic scene unfolding in his imagination.

"…I was wondering if you could help me. In math."

It sounds so disjointed and odd. He's never this formal, not with anyone and certainly not with Kyle. Though he doesn't know if he's more grateful or hurt that Kyle doesn't seem to notice the difference.

"Sure. See you later Stan."

Just like that he turns and is gone again. Just like that things are back to normal, crisis averted. Instead of risking further pain and humiliation and the end of his friendship he just saved the situation. He can turn around now and head home without the incessant fear roving inside of him. Really, he just did himself a favor, he stopped himself from probably making a huge ass of himself. He kicks at pebbles on the sidewalk. He knows he just did a good thing, really, he does.

So then why does it still feel like his heart is cracking?


End file.
